


In the Beginning

by kerravon



Series: Reflections in a Shattered Mirror [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:52:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerravon/pseuds/kerravon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 4-1, LAZARUS RISING</p><p>What if there is more to Castiel than meets the eye?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I discovered "Good Omens" and the Supernatural character Crowley at about the same time, so naturally I keep trying to combine the two. This is another attempt, using the SPN cannon episodes.

"This is demeaning," growled Crowley under his breath as he furiously strode down the dark, mildew-ridden corridor that led to Alastair's favorite torture chamber. Screams of the damned echoed eerily off the rough stone walls, directionless pleading that the demon pointedly ignored. It had gradually gotten easier over the years since he'd been recalled to Hell, although he doubted that he'd ever grow completely used to it. He increased his stride; despite only acting as a glorified messenger-boy, he was on a mission from Lilith and couldn't allow himself to be distracted. She wanted to speak to the Grand Inquisitor about returning to Earth to break another of the 66 seals to Lucifer's cage, but the torturer had been ignoring her summons. Therefore she sent Crowley with her message, assuming that even Alastair wouldn't be willful enough to ignore a summons personally delivered by her second-in-command. 

Crowley secretly hoped he did, though. The crossroads King loathed Lilith's plan to release Lucifer and jumpstart a new apocalypse, and he silently applauded any small spanner tossed in the works. He wasn't stupid enough to say so out loud, though; he had to stay in Lillith's good graces for his own protection. While she was as crazy as a snowstorm on the moon, Lillith was an undeniably powerful demon, and didn't tolerate even the mildest dissent even from her favorites. Disagreeing with her was likely to get you inconveniently discorporated or worse, handed over to Alastair for 'remedial training'. Crowley was certain that the senior torturer would just love to try the skills of his newest pet on a demon rather than a damned human soul, so he carefully kept his mouth shut.

Still, it was a crying shame. He'd always liked Earth, and humanity was never boring; the most twisted evil and the most astounding good to be found in creation always seemed to come from the mind of man. They had methods of torture that even Alastair had never dreamed of, not that Crowley would ever mention that, either. He knew that when it came down wire, he'd side with humanity every time. That, and he really appreciated the material pleasures of the world: his mansions, his wide-screen TVs, his fine wine and sushi. All those little perks would vanish if Lilith succeeded.

Of course, there was also that business in England with Adam a few decades ago. He'd be damned again if he'd let all his hard work at apocalypse prevention go to waste. Of course, back then his position was a lot more autonomous, and he'd had the aid of an agent from the other side. Afterwards, despite the assurances of the teenaged antichrist, they had both suffered repercussions. At least, he assumed that they both had.

He had been unceremoniously recalled to Hell, his position on Earth terminated without prejudice. It had taken a lot of fast talking to finagle his way out of the punishment pit, and even more to worm into a position as a low-level crossroads demon, where he could at least return to the surface from time to time. Of course, he'd been under close observation all the while and didn't dare search out his angelic counterpart.

To everyone's surprise, most especially his own, he was astoundingly competent in the position and enjoyed it immensely. His natural tendency for mischief served him well in contract negotiations, and his flare for the dramatic helped distract the clients from minor but supernaturally vital clauses. After six thousand years of living closely with humans, he had unique insight into their thought processes and how to manipulate them. He was a natural, his department's receipts soared, and he subsequently rose rapidly up the ranks.

Of course, Crowley knew it would only take a single slipup for Hastur or one of his cronies to tear him to pieces, so he behaved like a proper evil bastard at all times, even when above ground, just in case. Trust was not something demons had in great supply. He stuck to his deals, collected his souls, and even tortured or murdered occasionally when he had no other choice. While he didn't go out of his way to torment others needlessly, he didn't flinch away from unpleasantness when necessary. He did and said whatever he must to stay off the torture rack himself. 

As suspicions gradually eased, he purchased a few nice hidey-holes above ground where he could relax in comfort. He began a Hellhound breeding program, applying some of what he had learned from humanity about genetics to the tools of his new trade. He began to receive official commendations again. His taste gravitated from fine wines to better scotch, and he slowly concocted a cover story about some 17th century Scottish tailor whose mother was a witch and whose father was abusive. After a particularly inconvenient discorporation, he was given the body of a recently-collected New York literary agent and the transformation was complete. No more 'Serpent of Eden' with slitted yellow eyes; just 'Lucky the Leprechaun' who'd wanted a bigger dick as a human. He had a gravesite and everything. Of course the bones weren't his, but he had learned a thing or two about acting over his years of dealing with humans. He could never disguise the red eyes or red smoke that marked his true nature, but that fortunately rarely came up, even Down Below. Unfortunately, the only problem with pretending to be a truly evil demonized human soul was that if you played a part long enough, it started to become less acting and more reality. Now he sometimes found himself choosing evil over good even when it wasn't necessary to hide his tracks.

After the pressure eased off, he surreptitiously began making inquiries as to his co-conspirator in the failed apocalypse. It had been years by this time, and the trail was ice-cold. The bookshop had long since become a store that specialized in pornos, and no one in the immediate Soho neighborhood even remembered the rare book dealer. After chasing innumerable rumors and whispers, Crowley ultimately pieced together that the angel had been forcibly retrieved by Heavenly soldiers and taken Upstairs for 'interrogation'. He never returned. His books had been auctioned off and the storefront rented out, and that was the end of it.

The screams became louder as he rounded the corner to Alastair's personal torture chamber, jolting him out of his depressing reverie. He hid a wince at the truly demonic laughter that harmonized with the Chief Inquisitor's own, recalling a previous time when that same voice had been raised in shouts of pain and defiant cursing. Now 'The Righteous Man' was obviously enjoying himself at the price of some other poor victim. 

The tableau as Crowley entered the room was pretty much what he expected; the demonized human viciously twisting the knife in the body strapped supine and helpless to the rack, his eyes dancing with anticipation and madness. Alastair stood nearby, leaning against another table, arms crossed and proud grin on his face. He looked for all the world like a doting father as he watched his apprentice at work. 

Crowley set his lips in a grim line as he moved to deliver Lilith's summons. He ignored the remainder of the room, reflecting only that the righteous man had indeed fallen, and fallen hard. No 'sauntering vaguely downwards' for him, no sir. He'd been Alastair's apprentice for almost ten Hell years now, and showed no regret whatsoever. Crowley caught Alastair's attention with a raised eyebrow as he walked forward, causing the other demon to grimace. Oh yes, he knew that Lilith wanted to speak to him; he'd just been avoiding her. After all, she would wanted to send him on a mission, and everyone knew how much Alastair hated leaving Hell. 

Crowley had barely opened his mouth to speak when the chamber was inundated with a blinding white light. The King of the Crossroads threw his arm up to shield his eyes, squinted into the glare, and almost fainted from shock. An angel… an angel! had seized the righteous man by the shoulder and was hauling him physically toward the exit. Quicker than thought, Alastair threw himself bodily at the intruder, only to be roughly shoved aside. He struck his head on the torture rack and collapsed to the ground in a boneless heap. 

Crowley didn't move - couldn't move, the shock of recognition flowing over him with absolute certainty. Fortunately he wasn't blocking the exit; he had no doubt that the black-winged Principality would happily plow bodily through him. The angel's face was set in grim determination; he had apparently infiltrated Hell on a mission to rescue the Righteous Man, not realizing that he had already succumbed. He had to have made it this far by a combination of perseverance and craftiness, but it would take brute force to escape now that his presence was known. Crowley's jaw dropped and eyes widened in recognition despite the angelic glare coming off the intruder that was manhandling the fallen soul out the door. 

Black-winged, dark-haired, thin, wiry… as different from his bibliophilic angel as it was possible to be. But each angel's presence was unique, although the differences were subtle, and Crowley had absolutely no doubt that this was the Principality that he'd spent six thousand years with on Earth. After all, they had both returned in new corporations so many times that it was almost survival instinct by this point to be able to recognize their opposite number the moment they appeared.

Crowley lifted a hand as the two swept past and whispered, "Aziraphale…"

The single-minded angel showed no signs of recognition as he disappeared around the corner with the rescued yet protesting soul.


End file.
